TRAINING UPON A SWEET AND DELICATE ROSE.
Rose Arundel sat at the open window of her little bedroom and gazed out
into the night. The scent of many flowers hung upon the loaded air,
and the calm stars looked down from Heaven, contrasting their impassive
grandeur with the unrest of this weary world. The evening had been
lovely; not a breath of wind was stirring; the long shadows that slept
upon the green sward, and afforded a dark background on which the
brilliant glow-worms shone like diamonds on a funeral pall, were
motionless; the silence, unbroken save when some heavy beetle or other
strange insect of the night winged its drowsy way across the casement,
was almost oppressive in its depth of stillness; it was a time and
place for grave and earnest thought, a scene in which the full heart is
conscious of its own sorrow. And Rose, although she had too much good
sense and right principle to allow herself to feel miserable, was far
from happy. The key to the inner life of every true-hearted woman must
be sought in the affections. The only two people whom Rose had loved,
as she was capable of loving, were her father and brother; for Mrs.
Arundel, though all her impulses were kind and amiable, did not possess
sufficient depth of character to inspire any very strong attachment.
Between Captain Arundel and his daughter had existed one of those
rare affections which appear so nearly to satisfy the cravings of our
spiritual nature, that lest this world should become too dear to us they
are blessings we are seldom permitted long to enjoy. Rose and her father
were by nature much alike in disposition, and in forming her character,
and educating and developing her mind, he had for some years found
his chief interest, while in her affection lay his only solace for the
blighted hopes and ruined prospects of a lifetime.
Originally highly connected, Captain Arundel had incurred the
displeasure of his family by forming in the heat of youthful passion,
and under peculiar circumstances, a marriage with the daughter of an
English resident at Marseilles by a foreign mother. Too proud to seek to
conciliate his relations, Mr. Arundel became a voluntary exile, entered
into the Austrian army, where he speedily rose to the rank of captain
and served with much distinction, till failing health induced him to
resign his commission and return to England for the sake of educating
his children. His heart was set on one object--namely, to bestow upon
his son the education of an English gentleman, and for this purpose he
had availed himself of a very unusual talent for painting as a means
by which he might increase his slender income sufficiently to meet the
expenses of sending Lewis to Westminster and afterwards to a German
university. The constant application thus rendered inevitable fostered
the seeds of that most insidious of all ailments, a heart-disease, and
while still forming plans for the welfare of his family, an unwonted
agitation induced a paroxysm of his complaint, and ere Rose could
realise the misfortune that threatened her she was fatherless.
Although stunned at first by the unexpected shock, hers was not a mind
to give way at such a moment, and to those who judge by the outward
expression only Mrs. Arundel’s grief appeared much more intense than
that of her daughter. But Rose’s sorrow was not a mere transitory
feeling, which a few weeks more or less might serve to dissipate; it had
become part of her very nature, a thing too sacred to be lightly brought
to view, but enshrined in the sanctuary of her pure heart it remained
a cherished yet solemn recollection, which would shed its hallowing
influence over the future of her young life. And now, as she sat with
her calm, earnest eyes upturned to the tranquil heaven above her, her
thoughts wandered back to him she had so dearly loved, and she pondered
the solemn questions which have ere now presented themselves to many a
mourning spirit, and longed to penetrate the secrets of the grave
and learn things which death alone can teach us. Then she recalled
conversations she had held with him that was gone on these very
subjects, and remembered how he had said that the things which God had
not seen fit to reveal, could neither be needful nor expedient for us to
know; that such speculations were In themselves dangerous, inasmuch
as they tended to lead us to form theories which, having no warrant in
Scripture, might be at variance with truth; and that it was better to
wait patiently in humble faith--that a time would come when we should no
longer see through a glass darkly, and the hidden things of God should
be made known unto us. Then her thoughts, still pursuing the same
train, led her to reflect how all her father’s aspirations, crushed and
disappointed in the wreck of his own fortunes, had centred in his son,
and the bitter tears which no personal privations or misfortunes could
have forced from her, flowed down her cheeks as she reflected how these
bright anticipations seemed doomed never to be realised.
Unselfish by nature, and trained to habits of thoughtfulness by
witnessing her father’s life of daily self-sacrifice, Rose had never
been accustomed to indulge on her own account in those day-dreams so
common to the sanguine mind of youth. But the germs of that pride and
ambition which were Lewis’s besetting sins existed in a minor degree
in Rose’s disposition also, and found vent in a visionary career of
greatness she had marked out for her brother, and for which his unusual
mental powers and striking appearance seemed eminently to qualify him.
In nourishing these visions her father had unconsciously assisted, when
in moments of confidence he had imparted to her his hopes that Lewis
would distinguish himself in whatever career of life he might select,
and by his success restore them all to that position in society which
by his own imprudence he had forfeited. What a bitter contrast did the
reality now present! Rose had received that morning a letter from her
brother detailing his interview with General Grant and its results; and
though, from a wish to spare her feelings, he had been more guarded in
his expressions than on the occasion of his conversation with Frere
the preceding day, yet he did not attempt to disguise from her his
repugnance to the arrangement, or the degradation to which his haughty
spirit led him to consider he was submitting.
“Poor Lewis!” murmured Rose, “I know so well what misery it will be to
him; the slights, the hourly petty annoyances which his proud, sensitive
nature will feel so keenly; and then, to waste his high talents, his
energy of character and strength of will on the drudgery of teaching,
when they were certain to have led him to distinction if he had only
had a fair field for their exercise--it would have broken dearest papa’s
heart, when he had hoped so differently for him. But if _he_ had lived
this never would have been so. He often told me he had influential
friends, and though he never would apply to them on his own account,
he declared he would do so when Lewis should become old enough to enter
into life. I wonder who they were. He never liked to talk on those
subjects, and I was afraid of paining him by inquiring. I am glad there
is a Miss Grant: I hope she may prove a nice girl and will like Lewis;
but of course she will--every one must do that. Oh! how I hope they
will treat him kindly and generously--it will all depend upon that. Poor
fellow! with his impulsive disposition and quick sense of wrong--his
fiery temper too, how will he get on? And it is for our sakes he does
all this, sacrificing his freedom and his hopes of winning himself a
name. How good and noble it is of him!”
She paused, and leaning her brow upon her little white hand, sat buried
in deep thought. At length she spoke again.
“If I could do anything to earn money and help I should be so much
happier. Poor papa got a good deal lately for his pictures; but they
were so clever. Lewis can paint beautifully, but my drawings are so
tame. I wonder whether people would buy poetry. I wish I knew whether my
verses are good enough to induce any one to purchase them. Dearest papa
praised those lines of mine which he accidentally found one day. Of
course he was a good judge, only perhaps he liked them because they
were mine.” And the tears rolled silently down her pale cheeks as memory
brought before her the glance of bright and surprised approval, the warm
yet judicious praise, the tender criticism--words, looks, and tones of
love now lost to her for ever, which the accidental discovery of her
verses had drawn forth. With an aching heart she closed the casement,
and lighting a candle, proceeded to unlock a small writing-desk, from
whence she drew some manuscript verses, which ran as follows:--
THE PREACHER’S ADDRESS TO THE SOUL.
Weary soul,
Why dost thou still disquiet
Thyself with senseless riot,
Taking thy fill and measure
Of earthly pleasure?
The things which thou dost prize
Are not realities;
All is but seeming.
Waking, thou still liest dreaming.
That which before thine eye
Now passeth, or hath past,
Is nought but vanity--
It cannot last.
This evil world, be sure,
Shall not endure.
Art thou a-weary, Soul, and dost thou cry
For rest? Wait, and thou soon shalt have
That thou dost crave,
For Death _is real_--the Grave _no mockery_.
THE SOUL’S REPLY.
Preacher, too dark thy mood;
God made this earth--
At its primeval birth
“God saw that it was good.”
And if through Adam’s sin
Death enter’d in,
Hath not Christ died to save
Me from the grave?
Repented sins for His sake are forgiven--
There is a heaven.
For that this earth is no abiding-place,
Shall we displace
The flowers that God hath scatter’d on our path--
The kindly hearth;
The smile of love still brightening as we come,
Making the desert, home;
The seventh day of rest, the poor man’s treasure
Of holy leisure;
Bright sunshine, happy birds, the joy of flowers?
Ah, no! this earth of ours
Was “very good,” and hath its blessings still;
And if we will,
We may be happy. Say, stern preacher, why
Should we then hate to live, or fear to die,
With Love for Time, Heaven for Eternity?
Rose perused them attentively, sighed deeply, and then resumed--
“Yes, _he_ liked them, and said (I remember his very words) there was
more vigour and purpose about them than in the general run of girlish
verses. How could I find out whether they are worth anything?” She
paused in reflection, then clasping her hands together suddenly, she
exclaimed--
“Yes, of course, Mr. Frere; he was so good and kind about the pictures,
and Lewis says he is so very clever, he will tell me. But may not he
think it strange and odd in me to write to him? Had I better consult
mamma?”
But with the question came an instinctive consciousness that she was
about the last person whom it would be agreeable to consult on such an
occasion. Rose, like every other woman possessing the slightest approach
to the artist mind, felt a shrinking delicacy in regard to what the
Browning school would term her “utterances,” which rendered the idea of
showing them where they would not be appreciated exquisitely painful to
her. Now, Mrs. Arundel had a disagreeable knack of occasionally brushing
against a feeling so rudely as to cause the unlucky originator thereof
to experience a mental twinge closely akin to the bodily sensation
yclept toothache.
It will therefore be no matter of surprise to the reader to learn that
Rose, after mature deliberation, resolved to keep the fact of her having
applied to Mr. Frere a secret, at all events till such time as the
result should become known to her.
She accordingly selected such of her poetical effusions as she deemed
most worthy, in the course of which process she stumbled upon a short
prose sketch, the only thing of the sort she had ever attempted,
it being, in fact, a lively account of her first appearance at a
dinner-party, written for the benefit of a young lady friend, but for
some reason never sent. This, after looking at a page or two, she was
about to condemn as nonsense, when an idea came across her that if Mr.
Frere was to form a just estimate of her powers, it was scarcely fair
to select only the best things; so she popped in the sketch of the
dinner-party as a kind of destitution test, to show how badly she
_could_ write.
Then came the most difficult part of the business--the letter to Frere.
True, she had written to him before, acting as her father’s amanuensis,
but that was a different sort of thing altogether. Still, it must be
done, and Rose was not a person to be deterred by difficulties; so she
took a sheet of paper and wrote “Sir” at the top of it, and having
done so, sat and looked at it till she became intensely dissatisfied.
“Sir”--it seemed so cold and uncomfortable; so she took a second sheet
and wrote, “Dear Sir.” Yes! that was better, decidedly. She only hoped
it was not too familiar in writing to a young man; but then, Mr. Frere
was not exactly a young man; he was a great deal older than Lewis; above
thirty most likely; and three or four-and-thirty was quite middle-aged;
so the “Dear Sir” was allowed to remain.
“_Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute?_ and having once started, it
was not long before Rose’s nimble pen had covered two sides of the sheet
of paper, and the following letter was the result:--
“Dear Sir,--I know not how to offer any excuse for the trouble I am
about to give you, otherwise than by explaining the reasons which have
induced me to apply to you; and, as I know your time is valuable, I will
do so as briefly as I can. Do not think me forgetful of, or ungrateful
for, your great kindness to Lewis, when I tell you that ever since I
received my brother’s letter informing me of his engagement as tutor to
General Grant’s ward, I have felt miserable at the idea of his working
hard at an occupation which I fear must be distasteful to him, in order
to provide for Mamma and myself the comforts we have hitherto enjoyed.
It was impossible to prevent this in any way, for we tried to shake his
determination, but in vain. Now I feel that I should be so much happier
if I could assist, in ever so small a degree, in relieving him from his
burthen; and the only possible idea that occurs to me (for he will
not hear of my going out as governess) is that I might be able to earn
something by my pen. With this view I have ventured to enclose for
your perusal a few verses which I have written at odd times for my own
amusement; and I trust to your kindness to tell me honestly whether
they possess any merit or not. I dare not hope your opinion will be
favourable; but if by possibility it should prove so, will you do me the
additional kindness of advising me what steps to take in order to get
them published. I have never been in London, but I have heard there are
a good many booksellers who live there; and as I dare say you know
them all, perhaps you would kindly tell me to which of them you would
recommend me to apply. I have not told Mamma that I am writing, for, as
I feel a presentiment that your answer will only prove to me the
folly of the hopes I am so silly as to indulge, it is not worth while
disturbing her about the matter. Once again thanking you for your
extreme kindness to Lewis, and hoping that you will not consider me too
troublesome in thus applying to you, believe me to remain your sincerely
obliged,
“Rose Arundel.
“P.S.--I have enclosed a little prose sketch with the verses, but I am
_quite sure_ you will not like that. Perhaps, if Lewis has not left you
when this arrives, you will be so very kind as not to say any thing to
him about it, as he would be sure to laugh at me.”
When Rose had finished this epistle she felt that she had done something
towards attaining the object she had at heart, and went to bed feeling
more happy than she had done since the receipt of Lewis’s letter.
Straightway falling asleep, she dreamt that she was introduced to Mr.
Murray, who offered her £100 to write a short biographical memoir of
General Grant for the “Quarterly Review.”